


Wake Up Your Saints

by queer_cheer



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Character Development, F/M, Mentions of Antisemitism, Mentions of Sexual Assault, Mentions of Violence, Nazism, Pre-Canon, backstory!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 15:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16768141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queer_cheer/pseuds/queer_cheer
Summary: She said, "You're right, it's a living, but you're wrong for the life. / You never should've listened to my father's advice." -The National, Wake Up Your Saints.After D.C. is decimated and the war has been lost, John and Helen Smith lay low in their tiny house. Their baby is due to arrive at any moment, and the distant gunfire still hasn't stopped. But through it all, a pair of visitors come to their door, and one has some important advice for John.





	Wake Up Your Saints

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song from The National and also by two prompts: A kind character loses their kindness, and a composed character loses their composure.  
> I'm obsessed with how John, a presumably decent man, could've become complacent in something so terrible. Here's one part of his story! Kudos and comments appreciated x  
> (Also, I promise I'll update my other fics soon!)

The days after the bombing existed in a strange sort of vacuum. It wasn’t the haunting wail of sirens that frightened John Smith, and nor was it the intermittent gunfire that turned his cheeks pale with worry. It was the following silence that he feared, instead. It was like the moment of quiet anticipation between a lightening strike and a crash of thunder, except it had gone on for days, and it wasn’t thunder John was waiting for. What it was, he didn’t yet know. All he knew was that there existed a stillness where he thought there ought to have been noise: The Beltway, wrapped around D.C., encased the capital city in a steady wall of motion, and up until then, it was the white noise beyond the creak of the windmill out back, the steady hum that lulled John to sleep.

But those days had gone up in flames. He and Helen walled themselves up in their bedroom with a ration of canned foods, a radio, and a .45 caliber handgun, just in case. John had busied himself with ensuring Helen’s comfort, rubbing her round, pregnant belly and singing softly to the little one inside. He’d fetch her water, fluff her pillow, all while silently praying that their baby waited just a few weeks more before announcing its arrival. 

He’d taken to thinking to it, indulging himself just enough to believe his paternal connection was enough to convey thoughts through Helen’s womb and into the mind of their unborn child. It was foolish, he knew, but it was something to keep him sane, to keep his mind away from the inevitable.

 _Oh, my little one, if you only knew what this world holds, you’d stay in there forever!_ He gave Helen’s hand a squeeze, and when her fingers remained limp in his grasp, he knew she’d fallen asleep. _I’ll protect you, though. Don’t you be afraid. Papa will be afraid enough for us all._

He had the feeling Helen was right; They’d have a son. He’d always wanted a little boy, and he knew already that he’d love to name him Thomas. Like Thomas Paine, who’d set the groundwork for free, liberal thought and inspired revolution with a pen and some paper. Once, he’d dreamt of his son becoming someone as influential, but in their new world, what would that mean? He shuddered at the thought.

A knock against their door snapped him out of his thoughts and brought him swiftly to his feet. Helen stirred.

“John?” 

He held up his hand and pressed an index finger to his lips. 

“I’ll take care of it.” 

Another knock. Helen sat up. 

“Who do you think—”

John shook his head. “I don’t know. Nazis, maybe.” 

Fear widened Helen’s eyes. “They’ll kill you! They’ll kill us all, John,” Her hand rested atop her stomach, and John leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead. 

“No, they won’t,” He promised her. “I won’t let them.” He unclipped a second gun from a holster at his waist and pressed it into her hands. “If anyone walks through the door that isn’t me…” He swallowed hard. He knew he need not finish; Helen knew the implication. With tears in her eyes, she nodded.

“You better come back.” 

“I love you.”

Another knock, harder and more frantic this time, lured John out of the bedroom. He crept down the hallway, wincing at the way the floorboards creaked under his weight. He’d never noticed that before.

The front door was in sight, hidden behind the couch he’d pushed in front of it. He couldn’t help but think about the worst case-scenario: If the German army lurked beyond that door, he wouldn’t make it passed the foyer. It wasn’t the first time he’d been made painfully aware that he could be living in his last moments. In war, he’d wondered if animals would make a meal of him if he’d died in the woods. He’d wondered if he’d lay there looking at the stars before his blood ran out and his heart fluttered to a stop, or if it would be more of an instant kind of thing. Would it hurt? What would his last words be? His last thoughts?

As he scooted the couch away from the door, he thought about how his last words would be I love you, and how he’d die defending his pregnant wife. There were worse ways to go, of course, like dying alone in a foreign land at war, or hanging by a rope from the ceiling. With a pang, he thought of his father. If there was a life beyond this one, he wondered if he’d see his old man there, and if he did, he made a mental note to punch him hard in the jaw.

With a sharp inhale, he threw the door open and pointed his gun square in the face of the intruder. It was not the face of a snarling Nazi, though, but rather the face of his father-in-law, flanked nervously by his mother-in-law holding a bag of groceries. 

John lowered his gun in disbelief. 

“What are—” 

“Oh, thank God you’re alright!” Florence Russo tossed the groceries into John’s arms and then pulled him in for a stifling embrace. He usually recoiled from her hugs, not because of anything against her personally, but just because there was something uncomfortable about having your face pressed into your wife’s mother’s bosom. But he welcomed her warmth, for once, considering how moment’s prior he’d convinced himself he wouldn’t live to see the sunrise in the morning.  
“Florence, Silvio, I’m glad it was you,” John let out a nervous laugh. “But the radio said for everyone to stay off the roads until—” 

“I wasn’t going to sit around doing nothing and miss the birth of my grandbaby!” Florence announced. She pressed a hand against John’s forehead, frowning. “I had to be sure you were alright, too, dear. Are you? You look sick.” She shook her head. “Phone lines are down, and I knew you were supposed to be at the Pentagon with all the others.” 

John swallowed. He hadn’t thought about that. It hadn’t sunken in that everyone he’d called a friend – Keller, Marks, Luther, and Tobie – were all dust. Or, for that matter, how close he’d come to being there, too. 

“I’m fine. We were running late,” John told them. “I was…still here when it happened.” 

Florence smiled tenderly and pinched his cheek. “God has plans for you. That’s why he spared you.” 

John was not a spiritual man, but to satisfy Florence, he nodded. “Well in that case, I hope I make him proud. C’mon,” He gestured toward the bedroom. “Helen will be glad to know you’re both okay.” 

John had made note of Silvio’s silence. It wasn’t like him. He was a kind and jovial man. Born in Italy, but he’d lived in America most of his life and worked as a preacher for as long as John had known him. He played the accordion. He liked to read. They’d bonded over their fondness for Shakespeare and Dickens. 

“No Nazis,” John announced as the trio stepped into the room, a reluctant smile coming to his lips. He set the groceries down beside Helen. “Just in-laws.” 

“Mom!” Helen stood up, throwing herself into Florence’s arms. “What are you two doing here!? It’s dangerous to drive! The radio said—” 

“Radio this, radio that,” Silvio spoke up for the first time, though the humor John had come to expect from his voice wasn’t there. “A family has to be together to survive what’s coming next.” 

Helen’s eyes flashed nervously between John and her parents. “What do you think is coming next, Papa?” 

“Terrible things,” Silvio shook his head. “Very, very terrible things.” He turned his attention to John. “May I speak with you?” 

“Uh,” John nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.” 

Silvio gestured for John to follow him out into the living room, avoiding troubled stares from Helen and Florence. They walked down the hallway in silence, and with every step, John felt his nerves fray further. The man beside him felt like a far cry from the kind-hearted and humorous man he’d come to love as a father.  
He pulled a chair away from the table and pointed to it. “Sit down.” 

John crossed his arms. “Thank you, but I’d rather stand.” 

“I said, sit.” 

Hesitantly, John nodded and did as he was told. 

“Silvio, what is this about?” 

“What are you going to do, John?” 

“Do?” John was caught off guard. “I don’t know.” 

Silvio frowned. “You don’t have a plan?” 

“No. Well, not exactly. I mean, any moment now, we’re going to have a baby, and—” 

“And that’s why it’s even more important that you have a plan!” Silvio paced. “Things are going to change very quickly, John. If you make one misstep, it could be the end.” 

Emotion swelled in John’s chest. “No. People will rise up, people will fight. The war isn’t over, Silvio, it—”

“Washington is gone!” Silvio’s hushed tone took on a tinge of urgency. “The president, the vice president, the entire fucking White House, John, most of the military, all federal records and archives, everyone who knew what the hell we’re supposed to do…gone. It doesn’t matter how many people rise up, how many people fight, the war is over! The Allies lost!” 

Silvio paused just long enough to run a hand across his weary features. “You don’t know what you’re going to do, I’m going to tell you what to do. Do you understand?” 

“Silvio, I—” 

“Yes or no. Do you understand?” 

John swallowed. “Yes, sir.” 

“In a week’s time, maybe a few days more, someone is going to knock at that door and it isn’t going to be a friendly face. It’s going to be a Nazi, and they’re going to take you, Helen, and the baby, if it’s born yet, to one of the holding centers they’re setting up on the outskirts of town. They’re going to ask you questions, and the way you respond to those questions will determine if your family lives or dies.” 

John’s eyes had glossed over, but he blinked the dampness away. He hadn’t cried since Edmund died when he was a boy, and he didn’t plan on starting again any time soon. 

“How do you know that?” 

Silvio was silent.

“How?” John stood up. As he was struck by a sudden realization, anger flared. “You’ve been helping the Nazis, haven’t you!?” When Silvio said nothing, John rushed toward him. “You have! You bastard, you’ve betrayed your country, your people, your—” 

Silvio struck him hard across the cheek and sent him falling back into the chair.

“What country!?” Silvio hissed. “There is no country left! This moment was a long time in the making. I saw it coming and I did what I had to do to ensure that when it did, my family would be safe! You don’t understand a word of your patriotism, boy. You’re young, you’re arrogant, and you haven’t seen enough of this world to understand it like I do.” 

“What’s there to understand!?” A single tear slipped down John’s cheek. “You fought in the Great War. You served your country. The Nazis are killing people who haven’t committed any crime! Attacking history, burning books! What do you stand for, Silvio? Who’s side are you on!?”

Silvio took a breath and crossed his arms, pacing the floor. Every footfall sounded like a gunshot to John. He felt as though he’d had something vital ripped out of him. It was a pain he hadn’t felt before, and that surprised him. If he knew anything, he knew suffering. But not like this. Never like this.

“When the Nazis come for you, John, they’re going to ask you about your family history, to prove that you’re of a sound, sane, Aryan background.” 

John slumped in the chair. “I’m not. My father was a Jew who killed himself when he lost his business. You know that.” 

“No,” Silvio barked, earning John’s attention. “Your father was an American-born German named Klaus. He worked in the mines following the Crash and was killed in an explosion when you were ten. You can’t remember much about him, but you know that he was a good and sensible man, loyal to his Fatherland, just like you’ll be.”

Tearfully, John shook his head. “None of that is true!” 

“What difference will the Nazis know? Every record of who you were, who your father was, where you come from, it was all lost with the rest of D.C. You can invent your own history. And it’s very important that you do so. They’ll recruit you into their ranks if you can abandon your Marxist leanings, deny your family’s religious shortcomings, and, for once in your life, John, learn how to follow the rules.” 

John’s eyes narrowed. “My father had many flaws, but his faith wasn’t one of them.”

“You and I can believe that, but it’s vital that the Nazis don’t know that we do.” 

John shook his head. “There has to be another way!” 

“There isn’t.” 

“We’ll run!” 

“They’ll catch you.” 

“We’ll hide!” 

“They’ll find you.” 

“Do you have any idea what you’re asking me to do!?” John nearly begged him, tormented by the thought of it all.

“Yes,” Silvio huffed. “I’m asking you to keep my daughter alive. Is that such a terrible thing to ask? Do you know what they’ll do to her if you don’t do exactly as I’ve told you to do?” 

John shook his head. Not because he didn’t know, but rather because he did, and he didn’t want to think about it.

“They’ll rape her, and then beat her, and then rape her again,” Silvio lowered his voice to a desperate whisper. 

“Stop,” John demanded, voice cracking.

“They’ll enlist you into slave labor, where you’ll build their monuments, fix their tanks. You’ll never see a lick of freedom again. They’ll kill you when you’ve outlived your usefulness.” 

“Stop, Silvio.” 

“They’ll take your baby and they’ll throw it into a pit of fire, just like they’ve done to every other Mischling brat. It’ll scream, but not for long. The smoke will fill its lungs, and—” 

“Stop!” John screamed, startling even himself. He rose from his chair for a moment, just long enough to feel small beside Silvio’s towering six-foot-four, and then with wide eyes he fell back into his seat. 

For the first time, he wept. Harshly, openly, desperately, like a child in a fit. He dropped his head into his hands and pressed his palms into his eyes, shoulders heaving with every sob.

Silvio crouched before him and put his hands on either of John’s shoulders, guiding him into a hug.

“I know, my boy, I know,” He sighed. “It’s a terrible thing. But with people like us among the Nazi ranks – good people, honest people – we can lessen the barbarity of it all. What has our country ever done for us? The Crash, the poverty, the bread lines, all those things will be nonexistent, now. Play your cards right, and you can have it all.” 

“I don’t want it all,” John whimpered. “I would rather die a good and honest poor man than become a monster.” 

Silvio pulled away just enough to look John in the eye. “Do I look like a monster, my boy?” He smiled the kind of smile that John knew and understood, the gentle-eyed smile of a God-fearing man. Confused, John shook his head.

“No. But—” 

“I’m going to tell you something about being a family man, John,” He took a breath. “The moment you have a child, you stop worrying about your own soul. You will do anything it takes to ensure that your child lives. That your wife is comfortable and happy. That’s your job, above all else. To provide your family with security and safety. In the world to come – the Nazi world – you might have to accept that in order to protect them, you might have to become something you don’t like.” 

“Is that what you did?” John looked at him, his voice free from accusations, filled instead with genuine curiosity.

Silvio let out a sigh and nodded. “I met a man who came to my church and told me he knew of the bombing to come. He was a recruiter. He told me that if I joined, my wife and daughter would be spared the pillaging. I know that they might make me do terrible things, but I gave my soul so that my family may live to see brighter days.” He placed a hand on John’s shoulder to stead him. “Florence knows, and supports my decision fully. Helen doesn’t know yet, and I don’t believe the time is right to tell her. Do you understand?” 

John straightened up and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

“Yes, sir.” 

“And when the Nazis come for you, you’ll do as I told you?” 

John shut his eyes. “Yes, sir.” 

“Good,” Silvio smiled as he turned toward the bedroom, where Helen and Florence’s muffed chatter could be heard. “Never forget what matters most.”  
“I won’t,” John promised, his gaze falling to a photograph on the wall beyond Silvio. He and Helen, on their wedding day. He was clad in Silvio’s old suit, and Helen, in Florence’s dress. Neither fit well, but that didn’t matter. They were happy. John wondered if they’d ever be that way again. 

Florence shuffled into the room, a cheek-splitting grin on her face. “It’s time!” 

“Time?” John stood up. Silvio did, too. 

“For what?” He asked, fearing that he already knew the answer.

Florence took hold of either man’s hand and led them toward the room. “Oh, congratulations, John, you’re going to make a wonderful father!”


End file.
